


Light in the Darkness

by Robin_Mask



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series, Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Non-Canon Relationship, One Shot, Possession, Rape, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'How can I make you understand that what I do isn't about pain? It's about hope. It's about absolution. It's about control. It is about an end to the endless pain . . .'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light in the Darkness

# Light in the Darkness

 

 

It was everywhere. The sight of it, the smell of it, the _sense_ of it . . . he could feel it warm upon his cold flesh, like the sensual touch of a lover or the relaxing embrace of the soft spray of a shower, he could feel it well up in small beads before it ran in rivulets down his arm, he could feel it in a way that he could feel little else. It was something real. The slight stinging of the cuts, the numbness of the skin around each red line, and the sight of something vivid and alive upon his otherwise pale, white skin . . . it made him feel _alive_.

 

He knew it was abnormal, but his sense of normality had been shredded and destroyed. The things that he knew he should detest seemed preferable to the things he knew he should adore, and the longer he thought about the ‘normality’ of his situation the more he felt his world turn upside down. Perhaps blood _was_ normal, and perhaps his response to blood was normal, too . . . there hadn’t been a single day recently where it hadn’t seemed to feature prominently in his life in some way, shape or form. The very sight of it was no longer special. It had become something so very familiar that the very absence of it scared him more than the sight of it itself. It maddened him to not feel its warm touch upon his skin, it tortured him not to catch that metallic aroma, that taste of iron, and when it was gone he felt like a perverse version of Lady Macbeth, so that instead of washing away the foul, abhorrent sight of blood he instinctively sought for more.

 

He craved it. He desired it. He _needed_ it. 

 

No, he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. It was now so much a part of him that it was etched into his very soul, it defined him the same way that the art defined the artist or that the seasons defined time, and he had grown to find some sort of distorted aesthetic pleasure from the sight of it. How hard it was to put into words without seeming maddened to the point of insanity or broken to the point of worthlessness, but he wasn’t mad, nor was he suicidal or broken, and yet he craved for the one substance that was the most dangerous to him.

 

Blood meant pain. It meant torture, despair, _death . ._. it symbolised all those things that he hated, all those things that he despised, it symbolised all that was wrong with the world, and yet he craved it! He wanted it! How was it that he could want the very thing that he so detested? It was a sickened form of masochism. It was a need to do to himself what should never be done, a need to cause himself pain and harm beyond all normal understanding, and yet he did it. He did it. Did that make him a bad person? Did it make him evil? Sometimes the line between his own sense of self seemed to blur with that of the other within him, so much so that he wondered just who was who, or even if they were not one and the same . . .

 

He wondered sometimes if perhaps Bakura had inherited some of his sentimentality, or if he had inherited some of Bakura’s sadism, and if that was the case perhaps he really _was_ one soul split into two, broken in his depression into a state of madness comparable to no other. It had happened to Marik, had it not? Why could it not have happened to Ryou, too? Oh, a part of him _wanted_ to be mad. If he was mad then he had nothing to fear, he could even hate himself a little less for knowing that there was a part of him that was strong and powerful, that he wasn’t weak . . . but if he was mad then he was also alone . . .

 

If he was mad then the spirit chained to him wasn’t real, he was merely a product of his mind that stopped him from falling head first into the realms of insanity, and that meant that he was alone, alone without even a soul to care about him . . . a depressing thought made all the more depressing by how Bakura didn’t wish to be a part of him anymore. How self-loathing must a person be when even a figment of their imagination despises them enough to wish to be apart from them? If Bakura had been a part of himself then it signalled a self-hatred unlike any other, sign that he could not even abide to live within his own skin, and Bakura . . . if he was distinct as he often claimed . . . he couldn’t even stand him . . . no one could love him . . . it made Ryou feel a despair that no words could possibly express.

 

It had taken him a long time but he had soon learned that Bakura was a real and distinct part of him. It had frightened him at first, probably more so than the very prospect that he was mad, but even if Bakura _was_ real it still hadn’t changed how truly alone Ryou was, and how even Bakura – a soul chained to him, locked within his body – could not abide to stay with him. Bakura had wanted to inhabit Mokuba’s body; he had wanted to leave Ryou . . . even Bakura had deemed him too weak and pathetic to reside within. He had been abandoned by a demon.

 

In a strange way it made Ryou sympathise with Bakura. His desire for blood was merely a desire born from destruction . . . destruction born from destruction . . . a desire born from all of the hate and pain inside of him. The only way to ease that pain was to cause _more_ pain. Misery loves company, and it seemed so did Bakura as he always sought and lusted for revenge and violence. Perhaps Bakura believed that no one deserved to be happy if he was not happy, or perhaps it was merely a cry for attention . . . whatever it was it was born on that day his people and village had been brutally murdered before his eyes. Ryou could understand. He wanted to feign confusion, he wanted to pretend that he despised Bakura, but he couldn’t . . . Ryou had felt pain too; not to that horrific extent, but it was still pain . . . it was simply that Bakura chose to turn his pain outwards whereas Ryou turned it inwards, and who was he to judge the coping mechanisms of another? If only it wasn’t for that blood . . .

 

There were mornings where he would wake up with blood on his hands and bloodstained clothes stashed in a hamper, days where his memory of the night before was a blank as he tried so hard to retrace his steps, knowing the steps he traced were not his own. The nights would inevitably return to a black abyss, a blank oblivion, and in the morning he would go back to trying to understand the events that were absent from his mind, retracing the steps of another man, of a virtual stranger, knowing deep down that they belonged to someone else and yet were a part of him. Bakura was a part of him and yet distinct from him, Bakura was a reflection of himself and yet a portrait of another . . .

 

 

It was nothing more than a word. It was just a word, nothing more. It was a mere five characters typed upon a screen, five letters printed on a page, a string of letters that symbolised life, love, family, sacrifice, loss, and even death. It was a word that meant so much and yet ultimately meant so little. It was a word that he had become intimately familiar with, a word that would cause many to wince in compassion but Ryou to flinch in regret, and a word he had came to dread as much as he desired.

 

The blood of others was a sight he could never grow used to, and a sight that Bakura – for one reason or another – tended to shield him from, but the sight of his _own_ blood, of his own life force, was something else entirely. The blood on his arms, the cuts on his skin, the feel of that hot and red liquid as it trickled and bubbled upon the surface of each cut . . . _that_ he desired.

 

Of course the spirit of the ring knew what he did to himself on those rare occasions when he was in control of his own body. There was simply no way to miss those rows upon rows of shallow cuts upon an otherwise flawless limb . . . but he never seemed to call Ryou out on the matter, not that Ryou minded. Just so long as he kept the cuts out of visible sight, making sure never to go deep enough so as to exsanguinate himself, the spirit didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact he seemed to find them amusing, almost like a badge of honour. It wasn’t often that Ryou cut himself. It was not often he had his own body under his own control, but even when he did have that control he only cut when the mood took him, he only allowed himself to damage his body in a most blasphemous manner when he truly needed to do so. It was just a relief that Bakura allowed him to do so when he needed.

 

Bakura seemed to think that Ryou enjoyed it. He didn’t. It was just a necessity that he had to bear, the same way that salt on a wound could staunch the bleeding or kill an infection. It was something that hurt . . . something that caused him pain . . . but ultimately something that saved him from his pain, that saved his life, that gave him a second chance at living . . . because without it he would succumb so fully to the emotional pain within his chest that it would consume him completely.

 

It was a pain that had first began to take shape upon Amane’s death. The absence of his mother and sister had struck him like a direct blow to the heart, it had been an experience so painful that it had stolen his breath and left him feeling a shell of his former self, but wasn’t that the nature of grief? Surely it had been natural to feel their absence so acutely within his breast? His sister had been his sole friend growing up, his mother the only source of comfort when their father spent prolonged absences abroad, and suddenly he was alone in a way that he had never been in his entire life. He had no one to confide in, no one to talk to, and his only source of comfort had been his letters to Amane, letters that he knew in his heart she read, but letters he knew she could never reply to . . .

 

That had been why at first he hadn’t realised Bakura for what he was. His father had finally came home, finally showed him an ounce of interest and attention, and with him he had brought a beautiful and interesting gift, a sign of his love for Ryou, even if that love was barely shown throughout the rest of the year. It had begun with blackouts . . . he had ignored them because he had considered them to be a manifestation of his emotional pain, a means of emotional retreat, but then bad things started to happen. Bakura began to _talk_ to him. The people he loved or grew to consider friends slowly began to become comatose one by one, so that he started to blame himself for his loneliness, so that he started to isolate himself to try and protect the people around him . . . his father would move him from school to school, trying to protect him from a far distance, never coming to Japan himself to see to Ryou, and so he only felt more and more alone. His father rather would spend time on another continent than to spend time with Ryou, his only sibling and mother had died, his friends all seemed to fall mysteriously into a coma one by one. . . he was cursed. He was alone. He hated himself, he hated his life, and soon a devastating wave of depression swept over him like a dark abyss. He no longer cared if Bakura was real or if he was mad, he no longer cared about Bakura at all, because at least when he blacked out he couldn’t feel, at least the pain stopped . . .

 

The blood was the only thing that kept the pain at bay.

 

It had started one day in a heat of overwhelming stress and frustration. The very presence of Bakura was enough to torture him, it pushed him further and further into a fit of fury and devastation, it made him doubt himself and question his very existence, and it came to a point where he just wanted to scream and tear out his own hair, feeling a pain that he could not endure and not knowing what to _do_ with that pain! The taunts, the jibes, the mockery . . . it was just too much, all too much! He could feel it all boiling and bubbling inside of him, waiting for an outlet -!

 

So he cut. It was just a small and shallow cut, but the very moment he had done it he felt an instant surge of relief. It was as if with that one wound he had taken back all of his control. It allowed all of his pain and helplessness to leave his body in a fast flood, it gave him an outlet he never before had, he could feel that torrent of anger expel from his body as if it had never existed to begin with. It was as if he was saying to Bakura – in his own silent way – that it didn’t matter what the demon inside of him did, because he could cause pain too, he could do to himself far worse than anything that Bakura did and he finally felt like he had some control. He could finally punish himself for all the wrongs that he had done in his past, he could finally take back some of that control from Bakura, and he could finally give expression to a pain that was otherwise inexpressible! He felt like he was screaming at the world, he felt like he was finally venting what he felt, he felt like he finally found his voice! Who cared what Bakura felt or thought about it? Bakura didn’t care, so why should he care in return about Bakura?

 

That was until recently . . .

 

Bakura had always been abusive. It was something that Ryou had been used to since becoming possessed by that demonic creature that resided within the millennium ring; after all Bakura didn’t seem to care about any damage done to Ryou’s body, just so long as that damage wasn’t enough to risk being fatal to the spirit or its host. Ryou was used to waking up with cuts and bruises, used to waking up with muscle fatigue or complete exhaustion, but Bakura’s abuse went beyond mere indifference to his host’s health. There were times – like now – when he would actively cause harm to Ryou, where he would derive some sort of sadistic pleasure through the act of torture, and these times were enough to cause Ryou to either weep or laugh in hysterical pain, times where it seemed that breaking Ryou was half the fun for the demonic host, the other half coming from the act of torture itself.

 

Today it seemed that Bakura was feeling particularly cruel. He obviously was having a slow night or spending an inordinate amount of time in utter boredom, because it simply wasn’t often where he would withdraw into his own soul whilst Ryou was there, usually he would speak through their mind-link or not at all, and so to go into his soul . . . to find Ryou . . . how long had Ryou been inside that room? It was so hard to keep track of time. He wondered if anyone knew he was ‘missing’, he wondered if anyone cared . . . 

 

The soul room in which he was in was evidently Bakura’s. It was dark to the point where light seemed to cease to exist entirely, so that all light seemed to be absorbed by the darkness and assimilated into it, and Ryou began to feel that he – like his Yami – would soon be taken and transformed by the darkness that surrounded him. The darkness was so thick that it was suffocating, and yet occasionally objects seemed to stand out as if self-illuminated. It gave him hope. The room, he knew from experience, was modelled on an Egyptian dungeon, and so to be able to see the door – even if he stood no chance at escape – was a relief to his heart. He always dreamed of being able to run, to break that door and escape to his own soul room, but he knew by now that dreams never came true.

 

“Why, you wound me, Landlord!”

 

Ryou flinched at the sound of that all too familiar voice. It was a voice he was intimately familiar with, a voice he knew perfectly and completely, and a voice that he loathed and loved all at once . . . it was his own voice, but with such arrogance and bitterness that it sounded so much rougher and deeper than it ought, and each time he heard it he felt a piece of his own soul breaking. He wondered sometimes if Bakura was a part of him, whether they were once one soul somehow divided into two, but the thought brought about such a feeling of self-hatred he could not even consider it.

 

“You’re my guest, aren’t you? It seems awfully rude of a _guest_ to try to escape when he’s only just arrived. It makes me feel so unloved, and you wouldn’t want me to feel _unloved_ now, would you?”

 

“This is my body . . . you are the guest, not me . . .”

 

“Ooh, somebody is showing some spunk today. I _like_ it.”

 

Ryou glanced across the room to see Bakura’s reaction to his words. He knew his Yami well enough by now to recognise sarcasm when he heard it, and he knew that if the spirit showed any ‘like’ towards his assertion that it was only because he ‘liked’ the thought of disciplining Ryou, of having a reason to hurt him again. Bakura didn’t need reasons to hurt Ryou, but it was always easier when he did, and the pain he inflicted was always far worse . . .

 

It wasn’t often that Ryou argued with the spirit, even less would he physically fight back, but sometimes he just felt so hopeless, so weak, that he couldn’t help but antagonise Bakura. It was a kind of like self-harm in a way. He knew that the punches would come, the slaps and hits, the restraints and the cruel taunts, but he also knew that he deserved it . . . it was like he was being punished for all of his ills, it was like he was being purged of that darkness inside of himself. Each hit left him feeling numb. Each hit would leave him crying silent tears, as he hated himself for letting himself get into such a situation to begin with. Each hit left him with a feeling of relief, of peace, of _justice_. He felt ugly, disgusting, and _wrong_ , and so each blow that Bakura delivered eased those feelings just a little as it was like things were being put right. His place would always be beneath another’s foot, and better that Bakura abuse him and love him than to be abused by someone with no love for him at all.

 

All the while Bakura watched him with a morbid and sadistic fascination. Ryou could feel his eyes on his skin as he struggled to sit upwards, the stone bed beneath him so cold and hard that his back and buttocks felt somewhat numb from where he had lain, and as his blurred eyes adjusted to the strange juxtaposition of light and dark he could see the manacles and chains at each corner of the slab. They stood as permanent reminders of what could and would happen in the future, whether near or far, and as reminders of what had once happened and of what he deserved.

 

“I thought we could have some fun, _boy_ , but it seems you beat me to the punch.”

 

Ryou flinched and pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as he felt a distinct coldness wash over him. He realised he was dressed in nothing but a mid-length robe, his arms and legs on obvious display, and a part of him wondered whether his own mind had conjured this outfit as a reflection of his own feelings of worthlessness, representing him as a slave, as a being without a will of its own, or whether Bakura had changed him whilst he was unconscious.

 

“Tell me,” Bakura said, arms folded as he leant against a far wall, “what exactly do you _get_ out of this? You seem to hate it when I slice through that pretty flesh of yours, but then the moment I turn my back you ruin my vessel by marring it with ugly, little cuts. You are a fickle, little thing!”

 

“Why can’t you leave me alone? If you want my body then take it, but just stop this. Stop hurting my friends, stop talking to me, and stop hurting me . . . Just stop. Stop, Bakura. I’m begging you . . . stop.”

 

“Oh, come now! That whining is far from becoming, and besides . . . even when I control you it never seems to stop you.” Bakura rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “You stabbed yourself in the bloody hand when I put those pathetic friends of yours in the shadow game. You also used to bloody play with people time after time after time, even when it was more than obvious that they wouldn’t last the night after a match with me. If you ask me you’re nothing but a masochist!”

 

Ryou laughed a little.

 

He didn’t mean to, after all he would have to be insane to laugh at Bakura, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help but laugh! If he were a masochist then it simply proved that Bakura was the ultimate sadist, because there were many – _many_ – times when Bakura would protect him, keep him safe, comfort him when he did not deserve to be comforted . . . to many it was a sign of kindness, but Ryou saw it for what it truly was, the ultimate form of sadism.

 

It always made Ryou feel infinitely worse to be cared for and loved. He knew deep inside that he didn’t deserve it, that he was worrying those around him for no reason and that he was wasting their precious time, and the guilt he felt . . . even if it was Bakura, Bakura was still worth ten of Ryou, and to be pitied and cared for by someone who was so important, so strong . . . it just reinforced that self-hatred inside of himself. Bakura so often tried to help him, just to instil those feelings within the younger man. There were no other motives for such kindness. When his physical education teacher had bullied him Ryou had been hurt, – of course he had – but he also felt somewhat relieved that someone saw him for the insignificant being that he was and that he was getting what he deserved, but Bakura had ruined that. Bakura had punished the teacher. By that very act of ‘kindness’ he had hurt Ryou more than any beating or threat ever could, and it was then that Ryou realised that perhaps he was a masochist, but Bakura knew that . . . he _used_ that.

 

“Is that right?” Ryou asked, tears streaming down his face . . .

 

“Oh, quit with the crocodile tears! It’s less fun when you’re already crying,” Bakura replied with a sneer. “What is it with you and pain? You don’t even know what real pain is! What? Do you get your jollies off on it? Pathetic! You’re pathetic; it makes me ashamed to be sharing the same body as you! Well if you want pain then I can sure as hell give you that!”

 

“It’s not about the pain . . .”

 

Bakura gave his light a dark look of confusion and curiosity. His brown eyes were somewhat narrowed, with one more so than the other, and he arched one silver eyebrow so perfectly that he came across as rather handsome. He even managed to purse his lips into something like a pout, the muscles in his arm bulging a little underneath his leather coat as he tensed considerably. After a few seconds he cricked his neck and walked over to the bed. He stood over Ryou and looked down at him with a look of utter contempt.

 

“What the bloody hell do you mean that it’s not about the pain?”

 

Ryou visibly winced at the tone of the spirit’s voice. It cut right through him, it caused him to feel such a spike of fear that he couldn’t help but shiver and push himself firmly against the wall that the bed was pressed against. In the strange darkness of the room he couldn’t see the wall, but he knew it was there and that was enough, it provided him with a kind of comfort to know that there was something strong and stable in his life. He should have hated it, he should have hated feeling trapped, but in a weird way that helplessness comforted him, because – as Bakura knew – if Ryou had no control then he had no means of escape, he had to merely accept what was happening, he merely had to take it, and that gave him an odd form of comfort.

 

He adjusted his robe as best as he could, but he was well aware that he was leaving far more on display than he was comfortable with. He knew that he shouldn’t have felt embarrassed, he had no reason to feel modesty or shame when the person who saw his body from the waist down had the exact same body, like some twin or clone, but it made him feel naked . . . vulnerable . . .

 

Ryou pulled the robe down as much as he could and turned his body sideways, hugging his legs tighter and bringing his heels to his buttocks to hide everything from show as best as he could. It was bizarre indeed. Once his privates were fully covered he still felt completely exposed, and the longer Bakura’s gaze was cast upon him the more penetrating and lascivious that gaze felt. He could feel the fresh cut on his arm rub against his knees, leaving small specks of smeared blood in their wake, and along with them he could feel the scabs from old cuts, and suddenly he realised why he felt so naked. He was exposing the most vulnerable part of his very self: his soul.

 

Bakura’s nostrils flared a little as his upper lip curled in what appeared to be disgust. His coat waved a little despite there being no breeze or wind, his blue-striped shirt clung to his chest that seemed pushed out just a little, almost as if he sought to impose a sense of muscularity and strength upon Ryou, and the dark and dangerous smile that began to play upon his lips caused the younger man to shed more tears.

 

Ryou knew what was coming, but the level of damage to come depended on how angry or pleased Bakura was in those very moments of violence. If he played along, kept nice and answered his questions, then maybe he could escape the worst of it, or he could carry on with his earlier insolence and refuse to answer, thus suffering more than any one soul could possibly bear . . . he was so tired, though. He was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally. He wanted to either regain control of his body and sleep, or for Bakura to retake control and leave Ryou alone in his soul room, but either way he wanted to escape his pain . . . just for a moment, just long enough to pretend like there was no pain, just long enough to pretend that everything was okay. The cuts had done that. The cuts distracted him, exchanging one pain or another, swapping the unendurable emotions for an endurable cut, and now he was alone with Bakura. There were no longer any distractions. There was just Ryou, Bakura, and all the pain that was to come . . . worse than any he could inflict upon himself.

 

“Well, answer me!”

 

Bakura growled and threw off his leather coat as he crawled onto the cold slab that constituted a bed, grabbing Ryou so hard by his shoulders that he would surely leave a visible mark upon his upper arms. It caused the smaller white-haired boy to let out a weak, high-pitched squeal of fear. He instinctively began to struggle, but Bakura forced him down upon the bed with a snarl of contempt and fury.

 

Ryou was frightened. He knew what the spirit was capable of, he knew just what cruel and evil things that he could do . . . it didn’t matter that they shared the same body, nor did it matter that Bakura had already taken every thing of Ryou’s, all that mattered was Bakura’s wants . . . his needs . . . his desires that the young boy had learned long ago to simply submit to. To fight back was to merely invite more violence, and so – as he shivered in fear – he tried to ignore the sharp pain in his wrists where Bakura held hard and fast, and he tried even harder to ignore the man who now kneeled between his legs, his body in a vulnerable and weakened position. His face was soon wet with tears as he found himself physically pinned the to bed. He could do nothing but weep and hope that it would soon be over.

 

“You like pain?” Bakura sneered. “Do you like this? I can do worse if you want.”

 

“I can’t make you understand, Bakura,” Ryou said through his choked tears, his breath coming out in little hiccups. “I can’t make you understand something that you’ve never felt. It’s not about pain . . .”

 

“Listen, you little tosser! You cut yourself! I don’t see how it can be about anything _but_ pain! If you get upset you cry, you get angry you scream, you want pain then you cut . . . that seems to about sum it up. I always knew you were messed up in the head, you had to be to enjoy some of the things that _we_ do, but this is something else altogether! You have a dark side that even I can’t grasp!

 

“How can I make you understand that what I do isn’t about pain?”

 

Ryou was shouting now. He couldn’t help it. He just felt so desperate and nothing else seemed to get through to Bakura! The other man didn’t understand kind words or reasonable debate, he just seemed to hear one thing and believe another, existing in his own little world and unable to comprehend anything that came outside of that realm. Bakura only cared about Bakura. If only he would listen!

 

“It’s about _hope_ ,” Ryou sobbed. “It’s about absolution. It’s about _control_. It is about an _end_ to the endless pain . . . every day I feel like there’s a part of me that’s missing, that I’m living in sort of black hole, some abyss, and every day I long to find something that can complete me, that can set me free. It’s killing me. I feel like I’m dying inside, and sometimes it feels like death is the only answer. I hate feeling this way. I hate it! When I cut . . . when I cut it’s like I’m releasing all those bad things inside me. I can punish myself for being weak, I can take back some control, and I can express a pain that no one cares enough to notice . . . it helps me. It’s an end to the pain. It’s not pain itself.”

 

Bakura paused to take in all that had been said.

 

His dark eyes narrowed sceptically as he eyed his light half dangerously. It was almost as if Ryou’s confession meant something to him, and – if Ryou concentrated hard enough – he could almost fool himself into believing that he could see a slither of guilt and concern flicker across those dark, brown orbs. His grip upon the younger boy’s wrists seemed to loosen for a brief second, almost as if he questioned his own actions, but then – as quickly as it had occurred – that flash of sincerity seemed to vanish entirely.

 

In a matter of seconds that cruel and vindictive smirk seemed to creep onto his face, a subtle pulling at the corner of his mouth that revealed just a hint of those sharp canine teeth beneath those pale pink lips. His grip tightened considerably, so much so that Ryou gasped and opened his hands in shock, a low hiss escaping his lips as he pulled at his arms in a bid to escape, his wrists beginning to feel numb with the pressure. There was also a sharp pain as Bakura made sure to dig in his sharpened nails into his host’s pale flesh. Ryou thought that Bakura meant to do his worst. The spirit pressed his body down against Ryou’s, his face inches from the young boy’s, and then slowly he allowed one hand to come down and cup Ryou’s face. It was such a cold touch, one that felt far too intimate for such a situation, and when those long, thin fingers circled his chin and forced him to look directly at his attacker he felt a dark and heavy pull of fear upon his heart. It was only when he looked up . . . his eyes stained with tears and lips swollen with jerky breaths . . . he saw that Bakura wasn’t aroused or angry or upset. The spirit was genuinely confused.

 

It was strange to see the spirit pay such genuine attention to him. Bakura was looking at him in the same way that Ryou had seen Joey look at abstract paintings during art class, it was a look that said that ‘I know _something_ is there, but for the life of me I can’t possibly see what’. It held a spark of frustration as Bakura felt clearly helpless trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, but there was also a hint of concern . . . or perhaps merely childlike curiosity that would turn to sadistic torture if he ever truly came to understand it.

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“And you never will . . .”

 

Ryou looked up with tear-soaked eyes and a broken smile. He managed to loose one of his hands from Bakura’s grasp and moved it down to cover his dark’s own hand, that hand that still rested softly and yet – somehow – roughly upon his chin, his calloused fingertips stroking almost unconsciously along Ryou’s jawbone. Together they shared a moment of intimacy that was so rare between them . . . Ryou showing a genuine openness and honesty, Bakura a genuine affection and interest . . . it was enough to make Ryou feel less alone, as if he mattered, as if he wasn’t worthless.

 

He wouldn’t lie, Bakura was far from his most favourite person, but the spirit of the ring was also the only person who ever _saw_ Ryou and knew him for what he was, he was the only one who gave Ryou the attention he craved and the sympathy he so desired . . . he knew he should have hated him, despised him, but he couldn’t deny that he felt something for him. Bakura had stolen his body, hurt him in ways that didn’t seem possible, broke him so that whenever he remerged in control of his body he felt weak and useless . . . and yet he felt he _needed_ the spirit. Bakura was the only person that he had. His father had essentially abandoned him, his friends didn’t even care about him enough to ever distinguish accurately between the spirit and himself, and as for Marik it seemed that he forget Ryou even existed inside that pale, fragile body that now seemed rightfully to belong to Bakura. Bakura may have hurt him, but at least he _saw_ him, at least he remembered Ryou was there!

 

It was probably for that reason that Ryou had stopped fighting back, proving Bakura’s beliefs and assumptions that Ryou had a somewhat masochistic personality, after all. What else could Ryou be but a masochist? It was preferable to him to take the abuse of the spirit, to sometimes even give in to it and allow it, than to experience the solitude and loneliness that came with being ignored and forgotten. So what if Bakura suppressed him and stole his body, so what if he beat Ryou and worse? He paid Ryou attention, didn’t he? He made that loneliness cease, if just for a little while; he made Ryou feel less alone.

 

He needed Bakura, and he hated himself for that.

 

Ryou fought his rational side. He fought the desire to fight Bakura, to try to explain things to the demon, to at least try to converse with him and stop the abuse from continuing . . . instead he gave into irrational emotion, the need to be punished and hurt, the need to feel as if he was no longer alone, as if someone cared. He no longer cared if he was used, just so long as he was _needed_.

 

In an abnormal bout of initiative Ryou broke the small distance between their lips and pressed a warm kiss to Bakura’s mouth. It was almost chaste at first, merely a mingling of warm and moist breath between two soft pairs of lips, the tears that rolled down Ryou’s face causing the kiss to feel somewhat wet, a less than arousing experience, but it seemed Bakura couldn’t have cared less. He merely pushed Ryou flat against the bed and continued to kiss. The sounds that came were almost as if his spirit was tearing into a steak, as if he was trying to devour his host, and the longer Ryou denied him entry the more angry he became, growling like a wild animal. Ryou couldn’t help but weep, knowing that he couldn’t say no even if he had wanted to, and yet hating himself for _not_ wanting to.

 

Ryou drew in a deep and shuddering breath and opened his mouth a mere fraction, just enough for Bakura to force his way inside and steal a kiss from the somewhat uncertain boy. He could taste something unique and harsh on Bakura’s tongue as the older man dominated him with a kiss, his rough muscle plunging into Ryou’s mouth with reckless abandon, exploring him and tasting him as he passionately kissed the young boy for all it was worth.

 

Something warm and hot began to boil inside of Ryou. The very taste of spices and meat upon his mouth, the feeling of hot and rough lips pressing against his own, the hard and almost painful movements as teeth occasionally clashed and saliva caught between them each time Bakura pulled away for air or to nip upon his lover’s lips. Ryou could feel the heavy weight of Bakura press hard against him, when he moved his hands he found them instinctively coming down to press against the spirit’s chest, caressing the perfectly chiselled muscles in admiration and yet simultaneously pushing as hard as he could to get that body away from him. He craved it and hated it. He needed it and disliked it. He could feel Bakura’s arousal half-hard against his thigh, poking him as a heavy reminder of what he would soon endure, and as his heart beat in a rapid and quickening rhythm of fear he felt the spirit’s hand tighten upon his jawbone as he carried on kissing as if his very existence depended upon it.

 

Bakura pulled away with a loud and sickening gasp of air.

 

It was enough to cause Ryou to feel a cold sweat wash over his body, one that felt exactly like being drenched slowly in ice-cold water, and his stomach seemed to grow heavy as if he were carrying within him a solid stone. He was shivering ever so slightly, his body aching all over with a dull sensation of dread, and – whilst he felt a temporary relief at the breaking of the kiss – he felt an overwhelming sense of horror knowing what was about to happen.

 

He wouldn’t stop it. He wouldn’t deny Bakura. He wanted it as much as he loathed it, because with it he could at least _feel_ and have some purpose, and with it he could at least be punished as much as he felt he deserved. Only Bakura could make him feel this way . . . so conflicted. He couldn’t help but feel a spark of pleasure despite his fear, a tightening in his groin as his lover bent down to place a passionate kiss upon his lips once again, seemingly addicted to the taste of the one beneath him. It started as a warm sort of feeling far below, a rather tingling sensation that he could somewhat ignore for the feelings of hatred, but soon he felt hot . . . uneasy . . . _hard._ He felt warm all over, easily distracted, he felt _needy_ and awkward, and he wanted more as much as he wanted to rid himself of Bakura’s presence.

 

It was suddenly much more difficult to focus though when Bakura ripped open Ryou’s robe at his chest, exposing that long column of pale neck and rich expanse of skin above his abdomen. The cool air hit him abruptly, causing him to shiver more so and lose some of his arousal, but the very touch of the air also caused his nipples to instinctively harden and become rather uncomfortable. Bakura evidently found the sight of it more appreciable than any other sight he could possible see. He let out a deep, throaty laugh that caused Ryou to shed more tears and lowered his head to place painful bites along his neck, moving slowly until he reached the left nipple where he quickly took it into his mouth to suckle upon it, his teeth occasionally grazing upon it to add a strange mixture of pain in with the pleasure. It caused Ryou to melt under the older man, a low moan escaping his lips as Bakura’s right hand came up to play with the other nipple. He abused it cruelly and yet kindly, his fingertips rough against it as he twirled and tweaked it, occasionally moving his mouth from nipple to nipple where his hand would take over the duties of the previous occupant. Ryou’s chest heaved up and down with broken sobs of pleasure and pain, his own hands moving down to his lover’s smooth locks . . .

 

Bakura’s hair felt so soft and silky under Ryou’s touch, a fact that always surprised the younger boy, and yet as his fingers buried themselves in those thick locks he caught a familiar scent of strawberries and apricots. He recognised it at once as his own shampoo, wondering why the older man chose to adopt such an aroma in his soul room, but he appreciated it . . . it was familiar, gentle, and so sweet. It reassured him. He couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as he felt his senses invaded, and as he groaned he could feel the harsh vibrations of Bakura’s laughter against his chest.

 

“My, all the fuss you always seem to make,” Bakura said, moving far down Ryou’s body until he reached that sweet and forbidden place, “and yet you always seem to enjoy it so _very_ much. It seems that my landlord is nothing but a little whore.”

 

That stung.

 

Ryou felt his eyes burn painfully as this time he forced himself to hold back the tears, refusing to let Bakura have the satisfaction of knowing that he had hurt the younger boy, and instead he drew in a shuddering breath and bit his lip to remain silent. He really did feel something for the spirit, appreciating him as much as he despised him, and it wasn’t as if he had ever been touched like this by anyone else, before he realised what Bakura was all he had ever done was kissing . . . he wasn’t a whore, he didn’t deserve to be treated like one, and yet Bakura managed to make him feel like one. Bakura managed to make him feel like dirt.

 

Then again he was acting like one, wasn’t he? Bakura was there between his legs, a hand on each knee, and as he pulled those legs apart Ryou was doing nothing to stop him or prevent him from opening Ryou fully to the spirit. He opened his legs for Bakura because he liked the feelings the man gave to him, and he liked what he could do for the spirit in return, hoping that he could give the spirit the same level of comfort that he received himself, and – most of all – he allowed it to happen because there was simply no other choice. He had to allow it to happen, because if he didn’t then it would only be forced upon him, and he would far rather allow himself to enjoy things that to feel the utmost pain and agony any person could endure. He knew he should have fought, perhaps as much as Bakura knew he should have carried on with the violence, but in the end . . . eventually, for some reason . . . Bakura had stopped with the extreme violence, just as much as Ryou had stopped resisting. Did that make Ryou a whore? Did it make him in love? Love, lust, hatred, adoration . . . they all seemed to blur into one emotion, the lines separating them no longer distinguishable, and Ryou no longer knew what it made him, what he was.

 

“Yeah,” Ryou gasped loudly, “then what does that make you?”

 

Bakura laughed loudly.

 

He licked slowly along Ryou’s hole, causing it to wink at him in an instinctive response. Ryou could feel that hot and slick muscle along his most sensitive place, moving at a teasing and maddening pace, twirling and swirling along the outside as it hinted at imminent penetration. It caused Ryou to let out a high-pitched whine that made Bakura growl in a possessive type of appreciation, his hands grabbing hard upon Ryou’s thighs so tightly that he caused slight bruises to appear, and as he kept them well apart he continued to lick and kiss that forbidden spot.

 

“That the wittiest comeback you got?” Bakura laughed again, nipping upon one of his lover’s butt-cheeks. “All those years with me in your head I would have thought you’d be able to do a tad better than that. You learned the art of ‘love-making’ – as you call it – _so_ well, so how is it you can be such a slow learner when it comes to everything else? I’m disappointed in you.”

 

“D-Disappointed?”

 

“Indeed. I think you need to be _punished._ ”

 

Ryou let out a loud cry as a finger penetrated him by surprise.

 

He arched his back considerably as Bakura’s digit explored his insides with an almost manic movement. His shoulders groaned in protest as they bore the weight of his body, the pressure of pushing against the stone slab beneath him caused him to moan in an uncomfortable type of pain, and there was a deep ache in his rear from where Bakura had entered him with little saliva and no lubrication to coat his finger. It hurt, and yet it also felt good. It was so sensitive below, and soon Bakura’s tongue was pushing its way inside alongside the finger.

 

Usually Bakura hated such intimacy; the very thought of comforting Ryou or giving him pleasure without receiving immediate pleasure in return would be enough to make Bakura laugh in humour or bark in rage. The times where he prepared Ryou were few and far between, the times where he would kiss or suckle were far less than the times he would bite and scratch, and for him to somewhat gently prepare Ryou – to use his tongue no less – was so far out of character that it scared the younger boy considerably. He felt like he was being lured into a false security. He felt as if Bakura was manipulating his emotions, acting with love and patience in order to make Ryou feel loved, and at any moment he expected that to be stolen away. It may have been emotional abuse or physical, it may have been slow or quick, but there was no doubt that he would hurt Ryou before the night was over, taking away all of that ‘love’ and replacing it with sheer violence. Ryou would be a fool for letting himself believe that this could be more, but what if it _was_ more? The spirit was so old; surely he had hundreds of relationships over the years, why would Ryou be special? He wanted to be special, he wanted to be loved, but he knew that it would never be. He knew that no one could ever love him . . . least of all Bakura.

 

Ryou let out a small cry of pleasure and pain as Bakura inserted inside him two more fingers. The abrupt change in girth and minimal lubrication stretched him to near breaking point, making him feel so full that he felt he might tear in two, and as he tried to adjust to the sudden intrusion Bakura merely began immediately thrusting and scissoring. It felt like he was being ripped from the inside out, the burning sensation too much for him to possibly bear, and yet with it came a strange and familiar sense of pleasure that comforted him, that made it all worth while. He felt complete. He felt as if he finally had some purpose, some reason, and – if all else – the pleasure distracted him from the pain, it made him forget, it made him feel _alive_.

 

“You really are a masochist, aren’t you, Landlord?” Bakura laughed, removing his fingers as he crawled upwards to lie over his lover’s prone form. “Fancy taking such pleasure from pain! First you cut, now you moan when I take you so roughly.”

 

“I-It’s nothing . . .”

 

“No, it’s _something_ ,” Bakura said, licking his lips lustfully. “I _like_ it.”

 

The spirit gazed at Ryou with such a strong and piercing gaze that he could feel himself wilting away at the sight, his heart breaking in fear and shame as he realised he had exposed a part of his soul that he never intended the spirit to see. What hurt him most of all was that his arousal was all the more prominent, his erection now so hard that the tip bounced upon the bunched, rough material upon his stomach, little drops of pre-come already beating upon the top. How was it that penetrating gaze could make him both feel desire and despair all in one go?

 

He drew in a deep and shuddering breath when he saw Bakura slid his hand downwards, and – in a painfully slow motion – began to undo his trousers in order to free his own straining erection. It was strange. He could feel his lover’s hand fumble against his own erection, their bodies so close together that there was very little room for the spirit to manoeuvre, but soon he managed to loosen his trousers and push them down just enough to free his erection and the balls beneath. Ryou was forced to squint his eyes shut at the sight of it. It was a sight that he had seen many times before, the length and girth surprisingly – and yet logically – the same as his own, and he was intimately familiar with that hot and throbbing member. The length was average, the width painfully and unexpectedly large, and even though he knew the sight of that length so well he still felt an overwhelming touch of fear strike a blow upon his chest. He knew what was coming. He knew that Bakura was about to do, he knew the pain that was to come, and yet . . . he wanted it! He wanted that pain and he wanted the pleasure that came with it. He hated himself, he hated the fact that he wanted it, but he couldn’t help it . . . he couldn’t help but want Bakura and the pain that came with it.

 

The spirit spit hard into his hand and coated his length as best as he could. The very sight of Bakura touching himself, stroking his hand up and down that hard shaft as he let out heavy breaths of pleasure, was so very erotic that Ryou couldn’t help but writhe and twist and moan beneath the heavy frame of the older man. He felt so aroused, so hot and needy for more, his every nerve feeling as if it were on fire, sending shivers down his spine and causing his pale skin to flush with a deep blush, his mind becoming empty and numb as all reason left him, the pleasure consuming his mind and denying him his very reason and rationality.

 

It was then – without warning – that Bakura pushed deep inside.

 

Ryou let out a loud scream, one that was only silenced by the hard and harsh hands that dug themselves deep into his scalp, pulling so callously upon his hair that he thought he would perhaps lose clumps of his hair in the process. His scream muffled itself into a bittersweet sob, small choked cries escaping his lips as he let out little hiccups of displeasure and discomfort. Bakura, meanwhile, allowed a loud moan of delight to pass from his mouth, the sound echoing loudly about the room as he paused deep within Ryou in order to adjust to the sensations that pervaded him.

 

The pain inside Ryou was so sharp and overwhelming that he could barely stand it. He truly felt as if he was being torn in half, such a burning sensation that his skin inside felt as if it were being scorched by hot irons, and the more he sobbed the more Bakura seemed to enjoy it. It was as if the spirit fed upon his pain. His only relief came from how the spirit seemed to take some mercy upon him, moving one of his hands down and down until it reached his groin, touching it with a gentle kindness that provided Ryou with a brief distraction. The other hand stroked his hair with a warm affection, his forearm pressed down beside his younger lover in order to brace himself and hold his weight. It was almost comforting to feel the soft touch on his hair and the intimate touch upon his own member, but he couldn’t help but feel the pain regardless and feel the fear eat upon him.

 

Bakura slowly began to move within Ryou. His face contorted with pleasure as he felt the friction and the tight heat of his lover, and each time Ryou looked up he could see those brown eyes closed in deep concentration, his mouth wide open in a perfect ‘O’, in fact the spirit looked so human – so sexual – that Ryou’s erection began to perk up once again as the pain began to dull, satisfaction taking its place. He loved the red flush upon Bakura’s face, the breaking of a small sweat upon his forehead, and – most of all – he loved that he was the one to cause that feeling of delight to swell in the spirit’s breast. He loved that he was being loved. 

 

“Fuck, Ryou,” Bakura gasped, driving deep inside his lover. “How is it that you always manage to feel tight like a virgin each and every time? You should be as loose as a whore by now.”

 

Ryou felt a spark of anger well at Bakura’s words.

 

He was used to being name-called, used to being hurt and used, but for Bakura to refer to him as a ‘whore’ again during their most intimate and personal of moments was too much to be bear. He felt too overwhelmed with sensations to be upset, and instead – as Bakura began a fast and heavy pace, balls smacking hard and loud upon the backs of his thighs with each thrust – he raised his hands to his lover’s back, his fingers sneaking their way underneath his blue-and-white shirt, where he dug in his fingernails and scratched deep and painful cuts down his lover’s back.

 

“Oh, fuck! Ryou!”

 

Bakura arched his back and shuddered in a rather extreme motion, clearly enjoying the pain that Ryou had dealt him, and in return his grip upon Ryou’s erection tightened considerably and his pumping moved faster than anything the younger man could have expected. The hand was so rough and calloused, evidently from all those years stealing and fighting, but it felt so right upon him! It felt so good on his most sensitive part of his skin!

 

He still felt raw and sore inside from Bakura’s rough thrusts, but luckily his pre-come seemed to be coming out thick and heavy and coated Ryou’s insides as a form of natural lubricant, along with the sweat that caused the spirit’s clothes to stick sickly close to his body. His back was sore and numb from the cold slab, his head hurt from how the spirit had pulled his hair, and yet – as the spirit aimed his jabs just right – he couldn’t help but pull Bakura close to him and hold back faint and frequent screams from how the spirit managed to hit his prostate directly. It sent insane shivers of ecstasy through his body, his inner walls clamping instinctively around that thick and hard member, and when Bakura dipped his thumb into Ryou’s sensitive slit he knew that he couldn’t last any longer. He was going to burst.

 

Ryou dug his nails deep into his lover’s back as he felt his whole body tense and grow solid, his muscle locking and limbs growing stiff, and his eyes seemed to scrunch closed as his whole body felt ready to explode. He was on the edge, and it was Bakura’s sudden hard bite upon Ryou’s soft and exposed neck that sent him over the edge. The pain, the pleasure, the horror, and the ecstasy . . . they all merged into one, setting his body aflame as waves of rapture spread through his entire body, all that tension expelled from him like a coil being unwound, and – almost instantly – he could feel his orgasm break from him.

 

It was like a white wave of light crashing through him. His mind became a blank and awash with a feeling of absolute bliss and perfection, his inner walls clenching tight around Bakura’s invading member as his back arched like a bow, his mouth letting out a sound of complete contentment as he cried loudly, his member hotter than he had ever felt it. He could feel the come spurt from its tip in several long shoots, ropes of it coating his stomach and staining Bakura’s shirt, and – as he came to his end – trickles of began to flow down his lover’s hand. It was hot, it was sticky and uncomfortable, and – as he came to such a hard orgasm – he could feel Bakura tense underneath his hands.

 

Bakura had reached his peak also, and as he came he let out an extreme and powerful scream that hurt Ryou’s ears and caused him to wince. It was then that he felt the hot and wet feeling of come coat his insides, making him feel extremely uncomfortable and awkward, feeling like he needed to expel it and yet enjoying the feeling of it within him. After a couple more slow thrusts Bakura pulled out and rolled onto his side beside Ryou.

 

Ryou could hear the spirit breathing heavy beside him.

 

He suddenly felt alone. His body was completely and utterly exposed, and his throat was bleeding a little from where Bakura had bitten him – piercing his skin with his canines – so that Ryou could feel the sharp sting, not that he had felt the extent of the damage during their sexual act. His back hurt, his shoulders ached, his head was sore, and yet none of that compared to the agony that emitted from his rear or the uncomfortable and itchy feeling of come all over his body, his torn and ratty robe scratching his skin in the few places that it remained. He felt like a toy, like an object to be used, and he hated feeling that way. The worst thing was that he also felt a strong amount of pleasure from the act, he enjoyed it, he had liked _being_ used and he had liked Bakura using him. He felt . . . _wrong_.

 

After a good few seconds Bakura stood up and began to wipe off his stomach and hands upon Ryou’s robe, all whilst the boy was still _wearing_ it. He felt sickened by the act, almost as if he was so worthless that his own cleanliness and appearance was secondary to that of Bakura’s, almost as if his own desires were unimportant in the scheme of things. Once Bakura had wiped away the come from his soiled skin he let out a dark and menacing smile, before tucking himself away and finding his leather coat from the floor to place it again upon his shoulders.

 

Ryou felt a stab of pain and shame strike him, but also a sense of longing and desire. He wanted to reach out for Bakura, to take a hold of him and pull him back onto the slab, to hold him and cuddle him and fall asleep in his arms, but . . . surely that was the wrong thing to feel? It was akin to wanting to hug one’s own rapist. It was wrong, it was sick, and . . . and it was exactly what Ryou felt!

 

Suddenly the tears began to fall all over again.

 

“Oh, for the love of -! Will you quit that _ridiculous_ sobbing?”

 

“Kill me . . .”

 

“What was that?”

 

Ryou was crying too much to see Bakura clearly, but he could see the older spirit looking down at him with a puzzled and darkened expression. The young boy had spoken so quietly – so hushed – that it was impossible for even Ryou to know if he had spoken at all, or if perhaps it was his soul that cried out, or merely the desire to cry out so strong that he had fooled himself into believing his silent begging had been vocal after all . . . all he knew was that Bakura was looking at him expectantly, almost as if he was awaiting an answer.

 

“Whatever,” Bakura snorted, rolling his shoulders. “I’m going. Don’t wait up.”

 

There was no need to ask where the spirit was going. He would be occupying Ryou’s body, using it to do whatever he so pleased and whatever it was he thought it necessary to do, and – without a doubt – it would be returned to Ryou at the worst possible time, so that _Ryou_ would be the one to deal with the consequences, so that _Ryou_ would be the one to suffer. The spirit would never tell him where he went, what he did, and what Ryou thought about it he couldn’t care less . . . no one could care less. He was alone again, locked in the soul room . . .

 

Ryou did the only thing he could. He wept.

 

 

 


End file.
